To any mom facing hardship alone: ‘Let us be the protector you trained us to be’
I had just two weeks to prepare for losing my mother. Like a tidal wave preparing to drown me, it was a psychological and physical beating.
For as long as I can remember, I proudly declared myself a mama’s boy. Not because I expected her to coddle me, though she often did. What I really wanted most was to protect her.
When I was 6, I walked into the kitchen to witness my father hitting my mother. What I recall most – and dream of to this day – is a rage so consuming that it’s almost like being engulfed in flames.
Of course, as a 6-year-old boy, how much protection could I provide? All I knew was that now that the two of us were on our own, I needed to stay by her side. I wanted to keep her safe.
One day a few years later, she told me she needed minor abdominal surgery. I was packed off to Camp Sankanac in Chester County for a week, and every morning I prayed for my mother’s safety. I still remember the relief when I left camp and came to the hospital to see her sitting up and smiling. I hugged her tightly, not only to show how much I missed her, but to also reinforce what I saw as my role – as her protector.
We entered the new millennium, witnessed one of the most horrific acts in American history, and buried my grandmother, my grandfather and my dog, but what never changed in my mind was my role of protector.
On December 20th, 2001, the jingling of my mother’s keys as she approached the front door was the last familiar note I heard before everything changed.
Mom walked in the door and asked to me to sit on the couch. She looked me straight in the eyes and told me that she had Stage IV colon cancer.
Her teenage protector felt nothing but helpless as her body rapidly deteriorated. The late-night leg massages I gave her to ease the pain from the blood clots stopped working. I could only stand by and weep as she walked repeatedly to the bathroom, unable to get her body to perform its most basic functions.
Within days, the pain became too much. Her friend and brother arrived at 3 a.m. to take her to the hospital. They told me that, at 15, I was too young to join them. My screams echoed down the street as they drove away. I think I knew I would never see her again.
On Jan. 7, 2002 my mother died.
How could I not have seen earlier how sick she was? What kind of a protector was I to let her carry that burden all alone?
Why did she think I was not strong enough to know what she was going through?
Homelessness, foster care, four different psychologists, countless failed relationships, and a constant battle to find any semblance of self-worth followed. I was depressed and even suicidal.
Eventually, I pulled my life together. Today, I am a professional educator and trained accountant. I have fought for and earned success.
But that one question – why did my mother doubt my strength? – kept plaguing me.
It has taken me 17 years, but I understand now that I was asking the wrong question.
Now I see that my mother didn’t know whether she was strong enough to tell me that she would have to leave me. Leave me to an unpredictable world. A world where as a young black boy, there are so many influences and systems in place to keep me from my potential. She tried to shield me from danger, starting with giving me a name that wouldn’t give away my ethnicity to a college or job recruiter. She planned for my future meticulously but ultimately reached a point that was outside of her control.
We both were trying to protect each other, but in the end, her instinct to shield me had an entirely unintended effect.
I had just two weeks to prepare for losing my mother. Like a tidal wave preparing to drown me, it was a psychological and physical beating. I was most aware of missing my mother, but now I realize that the larger problem was doubting my own purpose in life.
The older I get, the more I understand how painful it must be for a parent to deliver terrible news to a child.
But we have to know the terrible news. The shock will pass. It is then time to get to work. We are your sons and daughters and you raised us to be strong enough to help you. Give us the opportunity to understand, process, accept or reject the information that is so critical to our family.
Give us the opportunity to pray for you. Give us the opportunity to talk to God and ask Him for strength and awareness. Give us the opportunity to choose to throw that stubborn temper tantrum or decide it’s not that important.
We are part of your team. Let us be the protector you trained us to be.
Marcus Hall earned his MBA from Saint Joseph’s University. He is currently a business owner in Philadelphia and adult education instructor for Community Learning Center and JEVS Human Services.